Clockwork Monarch
by Cassend
Summary: Day one he met the woman in red, and she was absolutely beautiful; he wished he could kill her then. She was smiling with red lips, predatory and armed with a tongue that may as well have been forked. Wesker/Ada  What if scenario
1. Mission 1

_ABC- thank you to SLT, thelexhex, and thecannibalcobra__ for putting up with me constantly messaging them "READ THIS". And my dear, of course, the Wesker in this, to whom I owe half credit to, **Marna** who is more talented than she realizes. I love this pairing of evil proportions. __Of course this is a what if scenario- a short little snippet while I work on other things. enjoy!_

**_Clockwork Monarch_**

**__**-Mission1-**__**

Day one out of hundreds, and he's introduced to something he can't quite call a woman, but he can't quite call a machine. She was an in-between thing with clockwork parts for emotions and a sense of humor that never had an appropriate place or time.

She called herself Ada Wong, she gave herself a name and a purpose and a persona, forever her own little joke. She was a natural liar, a born artist in the way she wove deception into elaborate tapestries at request.

Day one he met the woman in red, and she was absolutely beautiful; he wished he could kill her then. She was smiling with red lips, predatory and armed with a tongue that may as well have been forked. He could hear the metal rods and screws in her ribs, could hear that she had no heart.

_Something had eaten it, gobbled it right out of her chest, he didn't get a bite at it._

Monsters or men- or was there a difference, really?

He didn't pity her, he wasn't interested in pitying her. She was two big 'E's', "Expendable" and "exploitable" and that was all that really mattered. She could be a machine with beautiful eyes, as long as she functioned for him. And she half did and half didn't.

He sent her to Raccoon City and she came back with exactly what he asked for. A first in a list of successes to come.

It didn't take a genius to realize she had her own story; she was following a script he hadn't a copy of. It was next to impossible to pick through her past, to find any evidence that she had ever existed before the present. He didn't know her real name, her motivation, but he knew _what_ she was, and that was more than enough to know her.

They meet many times during the early days of the strange and twisted partnership, and he very quickly comes to realize that she's both an incredible opportunist and has a fast, liquid intelligence. Fluent in a variety of languages, talented with a rifle, and adaptable, she was the perfect mercenary. He wasn't quite sure if her career defined her, or she defined her career.

_ Born to kill or kill to live?_

_**-Mission1-**  
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**_ A road in France, 1999..._**

It was a warm sticky evening in a getaway vehicle, and he learns something new about Ada Wong's special talents as they flee like madmen from the scene of a crime, splitting down rows of corn and exploding into a backwoods dirt road. She drives like she's possessed and completely invincible; god knows how much property damage she managed to do in the last half hour. He has to grab at the dashboard for self-assurance in case she accidentally turned a little too far left and sent them right over the edge of cliff.

It would be one hell of a way to end this successful heist if she slipped up now. The car screams in protest when she turns left up the mountain, climbing the road and speeding through the woods. He smells burning rubber and has this nagging feeling that the little car might pop a gasket under her nasty pointed heels. It's only after she blitzes through another small strip of trees that she swerves off the road into dirt patch, parking the car with equal force, turning it off. The ringing in his ears was overwhelming amongst all the noises of buzzing mosquitos and crickets.

She was heaving deep breaths. "That could've gone better."

He quietly turns his head to her and stares, his own personal 'yes it most definitely could have'. She took a nasty hit to the chest with a baton, and the street chase was a bit overly dramatized for his tastes.

The crickets chirped in the silence, so awkward that she snickered.

"Cat got your tongue?" she purred, swinging her legs around and crossing them like she usually did, up over the dash. He could hear the slinky sound of her stockings, friction. It was a strange sound, not unpleasant, quite uniquely her. Silky and strange- it brought the feel of nylon to his fingers.

"Ada," he starts, catching the tip of his tongue behind his teeth. "I drive next time."

She waves her hand, absolutely no meaning in the gesture, dismissive. "Fine."

They were successful, quite the duo in action. The only reason he had her accompany him was her penchant for hacking or breaking and entering without alarm was something to be admired. Unfortunately, one snip of bad luck- a little bit of a blunder, his fault and thus he didn't comment on it- and suddenly everything was jeopardized. Plans upon plans later, it was him who was disappointed.

Grand theft auto through a French city had never been so exciting or quickly executed before. She smiled in the dark while he looked a little uneasy. She looked wicked under shadows.

"Too fast for your first time?" she says, after a long, long pause. He says nothing and glares, smirks back. He's been backstabbing since she's been lying, and he chalks it up to a simple stroke of bad luck. It wasn't the "first time" at all, just their "first time". Somehow, they pulled it off.

He still doesn't trust her at all.

"I'm sure you enjoyed it." He says, and she hums, taps the toe of her heel on the windshield. Something invisible was there, a quiet connection, bemused. They waited for their pickup and sat silently.

He could hear the gears in her ticking, and he has to remind himself that he can't get too comfortable around her and he can't trust her. Even if she did just save both of them from a mission failure, it meant very little.

That morning (early, early morning) they parted, different areas of Paris, and he thought of other things, did other things. He slumped under the shade of an umbrella, illuminated from behind by "la patisserie" spelled out in neon lights; thought about the "next step" over a flaking sweet. Building a foundation would take time, and the proper utilities. At the cusp of the new millennium- he could move to begin it.

He could envision his future, taste it, but the dream, and the scheme was broken too quickly. He was being watched from across the street. He watches her as she walks over, his red shadow. His fingers feel sticky from the sound- obnoxious, exasperating, really.

"Espionage." He scoffs, and stabs a bit of the pastry with a plastic fork, squeezing out the jelly-filled center. She climbs the three steps, clacking as she walks, sits across from him and crosses her legs, smiles.

"Feeling arrogant?" he asks. She's not supposed to be around him, she's too obvious.

"Insomnia." She sighs, a musical sound. He doesn't doubt it, he disbelieves that excuse. She's clockwork, one gear turns the other, and there are a thousand pieces behind every motion, behind every word. If she didn't smell so chemical, perhaps he could sense her moods enough to know exactly what makes her tick. He doesn't, and it's difficult to pry through her practiced layers; even her breathing is synchronized with what she personifies.

_Ada Wong _really is a machine woman.

"You have other things to do." He says, brushes his fingertips together at the sound of her uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. Sticky, residual sound.

She shrugs and eyes the pastry he hasn't eaten. "Not today."

He pushes the plate over to her without a word and she catches the fork between her fingers, licking the tines delicately. "My hero."

She nibbles the pastry bit by bit, and watches the sky lightening up. He has to wonder what she plans in these moments of silence, if she's planning on the conversation or the bigger picture. Her eyes are to the sky, looking up, fabricating something. He can't see her as the imaginative sort.

"Why red?" he asks as she licks some raspberry jelly from her lips, taking some of the gloss with it. She hadn't changed out of the outfit, so he can only assume she hadn't even attempted to sleep. Her outfit is red, it's all red, and it's always been red. He doesn't expect a complete answer, but it's a shallow conversation to pass the time.

She looks at her outfit, wine colored stockings, nasty heels and a thin red dress slip, and eyes him. She has a look about her, objectifying. He has to smirk at it and guess if she's lonely in her own little world.

"Why black?" she purrs.

Almost automatically he says, "Practicality."

"Impracticality." She near parrots, setting the fork down and swiping the remnants of the jelly off the plate with a single finger. Somehow, he believes that. It doesn't answer his question, but it's expected enough. He watches her tongue swipe the confection from her nail. She's quite purposefully making a show of eating, sucking on her fingers. He wonders about her, wonders if she does this for the rush, if she enjoys the feeling of danger and adrenaline.

"Lonely, Ada?" he coos, mockingly. She bites her nail and grins around it, flashing her fangs at him. Yes, she enjoys this. She either enjoys this or she's damn good at faking it. He can hear the way her pulse increases, excited. Exploitable and expendable, and very clearly _bored_ of sitting around.

"Maybe. I might have '_other things to do'_."

He stands and walks around the back of her chair, traces it. "_Prioritize_."

She leans back against his nails, smirking, what a perfect poker face. He gets the feeling she's more amused than excited.

"Don't worry." She says, as a provocation. He smells the powder on her cheeks, her waxy lips. The loose pigments on her eyes were scattered, a bit of purple smudged too much. She may have been an insomniac, there were rings under her eyes she didn't quite conceal.

He didn't kiss her, she kissed him. Leaned up and pecked him on the cheek before weaving out from her chair. It was platonic, intriguing, and frustrating. He rubbed off the mark with the back of his hand.

"_Voulez-vous faire une promenade_?" she asks. He straightens his spine.

"Where are we walking to?"

She smiles with her teeth. "Where are you staying?"

He recalls them hailing the sunrise and consummating a successful mission against a wall. They left the stockings on, and despite his better judgment, the heels too. She liked when he kissed her neck, he liked when she slid her leg up his side and muttered something about not punching holes into the wall with her shoes.

_ Which she managed to do._

They completely ignored the property destruction until he pulled out, with her kiss a fleeting thing and leaving a stain on his neck. And then they were on the floor, inspecting the two punctures in the wall and the various gashes in the wallpaper. They looked at each other and then at the holes, and she just stood, naked save for her stained nylons and her heels.

Sunshine painted her perfectly, reds and golds, her signature colors.

"We can pretend that didn't happen." She said, walked to the window, skin flushed and hair tossed. "Or at least _we_ most certainly weren't responsible."

He snickered, rubbed his fingers together. He still felt her legs, on him, around him; she was a strangely sticky, silky woman.

"_Why_?"

It wasn't all fun and games, it wasn't a silly romance kick started in Paris, cliché. It really wasn't a romance at all, and to call it anything but a simple convenience was too much. Surprisingly, she saw it as such, and told him as she slipped the dress back on and walked away like it was nothing. He didn't stop her from going, watched her leave and considered it.

Considered killing her then, just in case she'd perhaps poisoned him, or in the future _would_ poison him. Their Organization wouldn't like it though, a liaison agent killing one of their assets. He heard the ticking in her body, steady, like wings against metal.

"Miss Wong." He called, down the hallway. She turned her head and purred back.

"_I'll be watching you_."

She flashed him that smile again, teeth, claws, messy red lips. "I know."

It was months before he saw her again in person, but he was the courier for her many missions, he watched her float all about the world and wondered, not if but when she'd pull the knife on him.

And when that happened he promised himself, break her legs and let her live.

Dying wasn't as gratifying to watch.


	2. Mission 2

_ABC- And they just keep going. Crazy Criminals._

_Marna- My Wesker  
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**-Mission2-**_  
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_2000, an Interim_

Brief encounters were the brunt of their relationship. Conversations between private, corporate-sponsored lines, typically bare bones mission detailing was enough. She had a tone, a mannerism even in these, and it was difficult to tell whether her personality was actually her or her mechanical disguise. She wasn't his primary concern and she was never on his mind unless the time called for it, but she lingered enough that he pried one day.

She had brought him something, a minor piece of information that could be of financial use to them.

He had asked her to dinner as she handed over the small information card to him. They had power over an export business, blackmail that could damn the company.

Wesker smiled and claimed the meal "celebratory".

He escorted her to his hotel room and the room service delivered steaming foods, but he paid no attention to the delicious scents or the ticking noise he swore emanated from her skin and worsened when she smiled. His focus wasn't on her body, draped in a long black gown, or her luscious purring words. His focus was the creature inside- that thing he saw flickers of when she was under him, moving.

She used inane amounts of effort to keep herself inside, under her shell.

Curiosity drove him to put the checkered board on the table between them, an old wooden thing with faux silver and gold pieces.

"Do you play?" he asked, and she nodded over a sip of wine. He watched her, the initial question being "will she automatically assume defeat?"

"Once or twice." She murmured, sliding her chair in. "Corporate schemes too boring?"

"For the moment."

He had given her silver, he took gold, and he watched her, wondered as she ticked.

She thought a bit and made a move, the opening move, and he sensed her eyes burning into him the moment her fingers left the pawn. He made his move, casual as ever, watching her foremost. The idea was to make her think; make her think herself into a tizzy.

"Where did you learn to play?" he asked, sliding a bishop out, clearing his ranks. She watched, played it off and focused on the board, moved another pawn.

"Chicago." She said, flatly. He could tell she wasn't lying, but of course, she wasn't telling the whole truth.

"Why lie?" he said, almost smirking, but not quite, moving his knight, defending the bishop. He watched her eyes flutter, from bored to him, back to board. It was intriguing trying to catch her unguarded, exactly like sneaking up on a perched butterfly.

"Believe it or not, that's your prerogative." She sighed back, made her move. So far they were anticipating the other's next move, waiting for a chink in the armor or the first slip to start a chain reaction. So far he was testing the waters.

"Chicago." He repeated, making his move, bringing the forefront closer. Her next move was made quickly, anxiously. She didn't like him asking questions, he never asked questions.

"Where did you learn?" she asked, he slid another pawn forward and smirked.

"Chicago."

Her face screwed up and she stared at him, started laughing a bit. She was nervous, he could smell it on her breath past the wine. She made her move carefully. He sighed and took the pawn.

"You play well." He commented. She smirked and shrugged. He suspected, he dug, and he found things to bring to the table, a game behind a game.

"Did they teach you how to _lie_?" he murmured, a dangerous sound. She didn't move, but he felt her foot stiffen against his calf. He was prying into something and claiming a result. He didn't care who "they" was, but who she was, was a likely result of "they". He wondered if he could go further. She captured his knight, looked at the board instead of him.

"No, that's innate." She said. She was trying to deflect him, lying with quite a steady tongue, but that ticking in her body gave it away.

He chanced it, sliding his fingers over the wooden board edge, leather gloves hissing. The sound was obnoxious and jeering, and she frowned at it.

"And _lying_ on your back?" he sighed. "_They_ taught you that too, didn't they?"

She made a face, distasteful, her jaw cinched.

He took her queen while she glared, and she frowned even further at that. He was poking her with a stick to see what would happen. It was out of sheer boredom, like pulling the back off of a machine to see what was inside. There was an air now, a charge to her that wasn't there before. She knew what he was doing, so she took a breath to calm herself, and took his rook.

"Check." She muttered. "And _yes_, they did."

"You're a clever woman, Ada." He sighed, moving a bishop back to defend his king. "I was simply curious."

She was frustrated with his answer, but she moved intelligently, pawn forward, defend her intimidating piece. He ruffled her feathers, but with a few breaths (he counted), she seemed to calm.

She smiled at him. "You taught yourself **that**. Do you know how I can tell?"

He felt his brow arch up before he thought about the question. "Enlighten me."

"Because, Albert." She whirred in song. "I'm me."

He felt cold at her answer, disappointed. It was less than satisfying, but it made too much sense. He looked at the board and moved his piece.

"Checkmate." He sighed.

She smiled and nodded. "Good game."

The person inside her said nothing and they slid back into prescribed roles.

**-Mission2-**

_ Ansbach, Germany, December 6, 2002._

The sky was deep, black blue and thick, it seemed like snow. He could taste ice on the air as he walked through the gates of the Eberhardt mansion. The chilly lawn was alive with people in slews, drinking and toasting, dancing. A band played by the fountain smack dab in the center, lively acoustic spirit songs.

The Eberhardt _Nikolaustag_ celebration was something of its own little isolated holiday, and Anton Eberhardt was the patriarch of the grand estate, as well as the owner of a madly successful import export business. His affairs were a scandalous sort- he was a grand topic of conversation.

It seemed quite like people had flooded into the mansion grounds endlessly and from every corner of creation. The chill in the air didn't keep anyone away, they all came.

Masses standing under decorated tents, or chatting around the massive evergreen near the entrance. It seemed almost dreamlike to see the world colored in lights and wine, candy flavored apples and boiling sugar being the smell intoxicating the guests.

He picked at the edge of his leather glove and tried not to think too heavily about the sticky scents drugging his brain. Infiltrating the party had been easy, a simple matter of donning a suit and flashing the guard at the door a ravishing smirk, and he had absolutely no doubt in his mind, that if he had such an easy time with it, that she was here already.

He wandered through the masses of excited, chattering people, and people took notice of the handsome man in the beautiful Italian suit. People floated about, spoke to him, he dismissed them and continued walking, searching for her.

He heard her ticking amongst the throngs and masses, smelled her scent. He thought he imagined it, her velvet laugh- secretly mocking. He looked at the back of a woman with a champagne glass pinched in her long fingers, stared at her slender shoulders. She was laughing with a group of guests, that purring noise she made when she was insulting them through her teeth.

Ada seemed impervious to the cold, challenging it. Her dress was hardly a dress at all, a tight, extremely low cut halter, draping down her hips, and a black fur shawl bunched around her shoulders.

With a flick of her head he walked towards her, sat down. She had eyes in the back of her head, he swore it.

"What a night for a party…" she sighed, dreamily, a sip of champagne on her lips. "It's been... what, months?"

It _had_ been months. She had flitted from active to sleeper agent, spiraling to every corner of the world. Their employer kept her busy and he mediated the results of each objective. She wasn't his only charge, he wasn't the only liaison for agents, but in some twisted way, after enough stray bullets and decrepit deals with unreliable sources, he trusted her to do her job.

He _preferred_ her as his machine and extension, his weapon, and she was well aware of this. Counting the days until she pointed a gun at him became a game.

Her dress swooped around her legs in waves, slapping against his ankles, drawing him in. Her personal sea of intrigue was extending claws to him, beckoning him with soft satin, and the sound of the fabric was pleasant, like static to his ears. He heard her nylons, hissing and sticking, it was something that made his skin prickle.

He isn't sitting long, her hand was on his shoulder as she stood and wandered away. He was her shadow, following her out, a ghost man and machine woman walking down a path of lights.

"Patriarch Eberhardt is away." She said with a smirk in her voice. "He is at the Opera."

"How broad."

"About a mile away, we can catch a taxi…" She noticed him staring, or felt him staring behind his shades. "Less broad than before… are you _bored_?"

He hadn't said more than two words, mid step brushing his knuckles against the wisps of bangs hanging about her face. She sighed and blew them out of her eyes. It was so strange to see her blonde, not just blonde, but alien blonde. He had to wonder why, she was never _not_ her typical soft noir and it was… strange.

"I thought you "weren't going to do what I tell you"." He said, recalling one of her more playful or bold moods. She chewed on his statement as they walked and he wondered what happened to cause it, if anything. It could be called paranoia to suspect she was up to something, but he called it "rationale".

"Oh you didn't **tell** me to do this." She chirped back, tittering, wavy words, as dismissive as they were annoying. He frowned, watched her, and wondered what she was planning to do. This was an important mission, there was a lot to gain and a lot to lose. He wondered if he was giving her too much credit, if he was overestimating her.

"We should try and catch a taxi- we don't want Eberhardt to disappear." she said, stopping short on the walkway, facing him, staring. She leaned forward and kissed him. He tasted honey, mint, and chocolate hinted champagne.

"Blondes don't have more fun." She sighed. "I hate it, It looks..."

She heaved a sigh, not even finishing her sentence, and he just had to flash the smallest smirk, hailing a cab for them.

"I said _nothing_, Miss Wong."

They filed in with the scents and the daze of the party and she told the driver where to go. It became quite apparent that she knew quite a bit more than she was typically given, which was annoying and also cumbersome. She had, apparently, arrived an hour earlier than she said she would, and likely could have picked up that little detail at the party.

Still, it was something he didn't know and a thorn in his typically powerful paw. Ada most certainly wouldn't remove it, either, it wasn't like her to be so inclined to do so, not when it gave her something to tease him with.

He watched her, expected her to spill how much she knew that he didn't, because it could mean success or failure. His patience was running thinner by the second, with every building they crawled by. She said nothing, did nothing and kept that infuriating smirk while she examined her nails, though in the dim light it was absolutely impossible to see anything.

They came to a stop, he paid, they slid onto the grandiose steps amongst a migrating crowd.

"Schönen feierabend." She sighed, farewell with a bite to it. The driver watched the exotic woman, Wesker growled under his breath when her wax smile turned cattish.

He pulled her by the arm and squeezed her thin wrist at the base of the steps. He could feel her bones underneath, hear the hitch in her champagne-stained breath.

"I think now would be a good time to tell me, Ada." He said, and added some pressure. He felt her flinch, adjust her body so it didn't hurt as much. She frowned, watched the reflection off his glasses with no interest.

"Tell you what?" she prefaced, and he squeezed a little harder. She made no noise, surprisingly, continued with the strain laced in her throat. "We're going to go find Eberhardt and squeeze it out of him."

He heard the extra hitch in her breath, squeezed a little harder, pulled her closer as people brushed past them.

"This wasn't the plan."

She couldn't pull out of his grip, so she walked to keep up with him, heels clacking up all stairs, obnoxious.

"Sometimes you have to improvise." She ground out. "-As in take off my shawl so we can get in."

He had no idea where the tangent came from, but as they trounced past the grand doors, feet sinking into the carpet, he had an inkling of what she had in mind. She slipped into something in two steps, suddenly her hips swinging and abruptly shivering… _rewiring_. It was her seductive walk and demeanor, her "succubus" persona.

She didn't need it to be seductive or persuasive, so he found it gaudy. Wesker followed her steps, studied her, predicted. She probably could get them in without a single hitch.

He let go of her wrist and she massaged it as they walked to the glass booths past people, slid to the doors. They were stopped by a man, taller than most. Ada told them, in her polished German (he had to commend her on it), That Eberhardt expected her. Wesker knew the idea, sighed and pulled the shawl from her shoulders, to which she chuckled.

"Don't flirt with me now." He hissed into her ear, and she waved him off.

She introduced herself as a friend of Eberhardt's, her faux identity rather becoming of her. He listened acutely as she introduced herself as "Katarina", and then he swallowed an immediate response when she quickly added "He's my hairdresser".

His hands around the fur shawl wrung until the knuckles were bloodless…

And then some when nobody questioned it…

The man disappeared behind the doors, and she grabbed his wrist. "Go."

He burst through the doors into the dark balcony of the stage, and she grabbed his hand. "Top box, I've got a lock from the phone we were tracing."

He couldn't see at all, and snared her hand as she ran. They were shadows muted by the song reverberating around them. He didn't have look back to know that security was coming, that they were running out of time.

He had to trust her or he'd be running blind and deaf.

She exploded into lit stairwell, he grabbed her and was all but flying up them, pushing people out of the way, near ripping her shoulder out of its socket.

Eberhardt didn't know what hit him when a woman materialized out of his peripheral, sighing and perching on the chair at his side. He called for his guards on instinct, and stiffened as something slid behind him while his back was turned.

"Anton Eberhardt."

Wesker's voice felt like it sounded. It was a satin noose. Anton squirmed, turned to face the man breathing down his neck and he yelped when something crushed barrel first into his groin.

Ada smiled at the old, greying man, twisted the pocket pistol a little harder. Something about the situation was different enough for her, having someone squirming under the trigger. She was smiling when typically she was more stoic. Wesker didn't take the time to process it. Not yet.

"We understand you've been contacted by Colonel Sergei Vladimir…"

The man was stiff, either arrogant or too jaded for his own good.

Ada's lips almost kissed the man's ear as she purred. "We just want to know where he is."

That tone was something that was a full body experience. It was anxiety-inducing as well as venomous- and undoubtedly effective.

Anton's guards were strewn haphazardly across the floor, most unconscious. He was caught and rigid.

"And if you don't- she will _kindly_ remove your genitals."

There was something about having a gun smashed into a man's testicles that typically made him loose lipped, the key word being "typically". Anton set his jaw and snorted terrified breaths out his nose.

"Sergei didn't say where he was!" he sputtered out. Ada sighed, stroked the button of the pants with the muzzle of her gun. Wesker watched the motions, set his jaw because her trigger finger was prone to shoot when and where it wanted.

"Albert, he's not going to cooperate." She said. "He doesn't think I'm serious."

It was an invaluable piece of information squirming under the barrel of her gun, so he stilled her for just a moment. She frowned, turned to watch the soloist onstage, but her foot was tapping.

"I doubt that, considering he traveled in your name until this point-"

Ada started chuckling, they stared at her. "He was lying, Albert. Do you know why?"

Wesker rose as he heard the sound of boots, hands tightening into fists. They had run out of time. Ada shifted in the seat like she was made of drapery herself, sighing something he couldn't hear over the shouts of security storming in. What he could hear was the sound of a bullet into flesh, and he swore openly as Eberhardt fell out of his chair in spasms, one bullet between the eyes.

Ada threw the pistol to the floor and put her hands on her hips, looked about at the situation critically.

"Well…" she begun, over seemingly endless screaming and the sounds of weapons readied. He was tempted to leave her there with the corpse on her hands and the risk of being shot, but something innate told him to grab her wrist as he crouched, and drag her behind him.

He plowed through people like they were made of toothpicks, running, cursing her the entire way. _She had killed their link to Sergei, she'd set back his plan, she'd…_

He ran on pure angry determination, and he could feel her arm muscle strain and tear, regardless of how much pull her hookshot prepared her for. He burst out of the doors, ignoring her hisses, ignoring the people he threw out of the way, unnatural strength, speed. The valet had no idea what hit him.

He threw Ada into the car and drove off before people could even realize what had happened. His glasses were ripped off, thrown aside so he could see at all.

She swore in several languages, her eyes watered as she leaned against the door, clutching her shoulder. He smelled the salt in her eyes, detested the taste. He sped the car up, changed gears, drowned out her wounded sounds with mechanical roaring.

"You." He said, to preface. It was a terrifying word, a threat all its own. "What _exactly_ was that, Ada?"

Cars were blurs as he flew into the highway. He heard her heart race at it, heard her body quicken. He wasn't sure if she was scared, excited, or if she trusted him enough not to kill them both.

"_Power get you off, Ada?"_

She breathed through her nose and threw something at his thigh. "Spare me the lecture, he wasn't going to talk."

He chanced a moment to look down- to see a PDA, fully functional and blaring white.

"You're welcome." She muttered, rubbed her shoulder. "He's not stupid, and neither is Sergei, but this will tell us more than he did. It has his calls listed."

He looked at the device and then her. She watched, smirked.

"What, _Clyde_? Didn't think to loot him?"

He felt her words like they were spiders, or more apt, needles. The smugness in her words, the rattling in her chest. If her defense mechanism against fear was pissing him off, it was certainly working. He felt muggy and heavy, by irritation, the buzz of the car, her damn half smile. The speed they were going at was hellishly dangerous and he smelled the rush in her veins.

"Are you going to kill us?" she asked through her teeth.

"Scared of dying, darling?"

He knew her too well. He knew she wasn't afraid, he knew that she had a switch- her instant resolution. It was how she was still alive, still almost sane. Almost.

"Think about it, Ada. One wrong move and we_ might. just. __**die**_."

He paused as they narrowly passed a truck, the driver honking hysterically in their wake. "Well, I won't."

She was shaking, gripping the doorframe for more emotional support than anything. He could hear her thinking, even if he wasn't serious, she was going to do something to level the playing field. Killing Anton, usurping his control, possibly jeopardizing the mission…

He could slam on the break right now; splatter her into a thousand pieces. She was flesh on the inside, mortal at some depth. He heard her still, watched her silhouette from his peripheral.

"One wrong move?" she mused, as if it was a revelation. "Just one?"

That tone of hers was reserved for other things, and in his current state of mind, absolutely inappropriate. It worsened when she slid over the upholstery, a sound that rung in his ears and left that residual feel on his fingers. It was stickier than her nylons, it made him twitch. Her fingers slid over his thigh.

"Don't _**you**_ love the rush?"

He grabbed her by the hair before she could start, growled at her. "Stop it. _Now_."

She sighed and he sensed the smirk on her lips as she sat back in her seat. Alive another day.

"Teasing _bitch_, you are."

"Learned from the best." She said.

Somehow the words made her smirk infectious.


	3. Mission 3

_**__****__**__ABC- I apologize for the delay in posting, and it shows. RL is chaotic at the moment, and February is apparently the month where I just BREAK ALL THE TECHNOLOGY WOO. As always, thanks for reading and reviewing. The delay shows- to me, but I hope you enjoy it. Thank you SLT, cjjs, tori-tots, thelexhex, Zet Sway, Maidenchan, and Marna, the support is fabulous.___

_**__**-Mission3-**__**_

_An interim, 2003_

It had been months after Sergei's rather timely death, and days were swollen with constant movement. Life moved quickly- secrets were traded and sold, monopolized. He reaped the rewards carefully, unzipped years of cruel corporate enterprise and traded away the select parts as if harvesting a body. He cut Umbrella surgically, distributed it with a price for each piece.

Anonymous distribution was achievable for a liaison. The "_eyes in the sky_" suspected something- but he was careful under the radar. They couldn't suspect too much, not of the man who personally pushed Umbrella into the grave and gave them the armature.

That first meeting with Tricell, an ambitious creature, thirsty for something more, he had to restrain the urge to smile. It was cyclical, repetitive to the point of mundane how they functioned. He sat in a tiny room with more of the feeling of a graveyard than a step forward, the woman across from him completing the look.

A pinched, wrinkled face, cold eyes, wisps for hair. Her face seemed puckered inward, sunken in all places and perpetually irritated. They discussed an agreement, a rather hefty thing, but the profits were unquestionable. Umbrella's packaged research for sanctuary in their corporate domain, for the ability to disappear entirely. The slivers floating about on the underground market paled in comparison. He chuckled at the graver woman, digging holes into the desk with her nails.

He promised her more than what _they_ had in full, progress, but they had to return the favor. It was a risky deal, but he presented it with a charming smile that even the woman could believe was serious.

"_I'll be watching you." _She had said, back stiff and legs seemingly bolted to the floor.

'_Automatic antipathy' _He had thought, and couldn't help the smile as he heard the hiss of nylons under the desk. His fingers felt sticky behind his gloves and he had to brush them together instinctively. Sensory memories were amusing.

"That isn't a problem. I have an agent already positioned to feed information to you."

The woman sucked her shriveled cheeks on that, every bit as critical as her job demanded.

"We will consider it."

He smiled, all teeth, laughing without a word.

_**__**-Mission3-**__**_

_ An interim, 2003_

_She rarely questioned the spontaneity of the meetings._

_ She questioned almost everything by nature, but for them, her insatiable mind was set to mute for survival purposes. They called, she had to come or her life was forfeit._

_ A man sat across from her in the diner, carving a chunk of breaded veal into meticulous pieces while oldies played on the jukebox. She stared at him, one palm cradling her cheek as she trying vainly to guess how many weapons he was packing. _

_ One gun for sure, she definitely knew about. It was hinged to the underside of the table, digging into her thigh. Whoever he was, (he introduced himself as John), he must have been rather good with weapons and sadistically creative to rig a miniature bayonet to the end of a fucking pistol._

_ She had to commend him for getting her to sit ramrod straight for a solid ten minutes with a steel needle half an inch embedded in her thigh. _

_ "So." He muttered, wiping crumbs off his face- kind of handsome despite the five o' clock shadow and the chisel-cut lines on his forehead. John was kind of cute if it weren't for the gun pointed at her stomach… and the blood pooling quietly under her leg. Her dress was stuck to her skin. How to explain this…_

_ "So, John." She parroted, strained against herself and zounds of murderous thoughts. "What do you want?"_

_ 'What the hell is going on.'_

_ "Your charge disappeared off the map."_

_ She set her jaw, he pushed the needle deeper, spearing her. It was a precision instrument, barbed at the tip. She started shaking. "Explain."_

_ "And you did too." He added, as forethought. She grabbed her drink, coffee, and swallowed mouthfuls to avoid the hisses and spits welling up in her throat. _

_ "He's my handler, John." She grit out, face paling. Her hand was shaking. In a mockery of concern he took it in his own. She squeezed it, long fingers, stiffened. "You gave him access to my record despite him acting out."_

_ "Very good, but we aren't paying you to state the obvious." He sighed, returned attention to his veal. It was amazing how completely oblivious the employment was, that no one noticed the smell of blood over their meals. There was a pause as John ate cutlets up._

_ Ada felt lightheaded, stomach sickened. "You want him gone?"_

_ She swallowed the nausea. John wiped greasy crumbs off again, a gesture so infuriating she grimaced._

_ "No." he said. "You're going to send us everything he gives you."_

_ "Fine by me John." She muttered. "You could've just called."_

_ He laughed. Such a sandpaper sound and she could've done without it. He would've been handsome had he not held a gun between her legs, hidden by the drapery of her dress. She whined into her coffee as he pulled the blade out, discrete. Her body demanded for her to fixate on something to calm herself down, so the bitter taste of caffeinated drink was welcome._

_ "You're a hell of a woman for a cold little girl."_

_ She glared, took a wad of napkins from the booth top and pressed them against the hole in her thigh. "And what" She spat. "I'll see you again if this doesn't go as planned?"_

_ Sandpaper on flesh, that's what his voice sounded like. "You'd like that?"_

_ "Absolutely not." She groaned. "Exciting date, but I'm done."_

_ She wanted to get up, but he stopped her, a hand on her shoulder. "What's the rush, we haven't even sung yet?"_

_ "Sung?" she snapped. _

_ "Why Happy Birthday, of course." _

_ Her stomach protested vehemently against existence and the connotation of cake at all._

_ "John, good day." She said, and stood, limped to the counter._

_ She got the satisfaction of planting the tab on him, black tights soaking blood, usually floating walk maimed. The cashier asked her if everything was feeling ill and she swallowed, shifted and answered honestly "yes". She felt John's muddy brown eyes on her back and glared at his reflection in the window. _

_**__**-Mission3-**__**_

_Las Vegas, Nevada, 2003_

_ The Mirage Hotel…_

He had to give a nod to the designers that dug a trench in the strip and created The Mirage as close to textbook definition as possible. In the shadow of such a construct preying on human luxury, he felt inconsequential and apart. Both overwhelmed and in another class entirely. Against the night sky it was a monument decked in neon and saturated design.

He could see why she liked it and chose it. It felt like a surreal dream- feigning power. He entered her room with a bottle of champagne, _Krug Clos d'Ambonnay. _Wesker set the offering on the table and his glasses in his chair, but the matron of the room wasn't in. He didn't know where she was, but he could smell remnants of her amongst the flavor of the room.

Here, alone with a bottle of expensive champagne and the low hum of a blues track droning over a radio, he wandered through thought again about the woman with no heart to speak of.

He was going to bring her along for the ride and drag her into another world, into his world, and as beneficial as that could be, paranoia was always there. Someday, he knew, she would pull the knife on him, it was in her nature. Her red liar's lips and toothed smile said everything she did not.

Her frowns lately were saying even more.

Wesker mulled over it, over how lately- in the rare times he had seen her, she seemed worn. Her personality was hardly affected, but her posture and her expression, as practiced as they were, were loose and drained. Her ticking was slower- snarky comments a little less invasive than they typically were. It wasn't uncommon for her line of work to slouch, but it was _her_ and he required _her_. She was older, yes, but practiced.

_ She was his machine._

Her heaviness couldn't be tolerated whatsoever. Something was bothering her.

He wondered just what it was as he walked about the luxurious villa. There were stories of spies, talented agents feeling time pressing against them suddenly, like some brutal revelation that sprung out of air. They would start to regret and think what would have happened in another life.

He wondered if she ever considered a "_normal_" life, or if she felt time on her body. He couldn't comprehend the feeling.

It seemed impossible that she would care about normalcy when she took so much pleasure in the luxury of being the antagonist.

He traced the comforter, felt the sheets still warm. "Where are you?"

Somewhere around the city, he could see her wandering about. It seemed like her kind of place- a flashy, showy culture built on scamming people. Sin City for a lovely traitor.

Hours later, she did return, and he watched as she kicked off her heels at the door, untied the tight knot of her scarf and let it float to the ground.

She was limping as she walked, subtlety, but her legs were shaky and strange. She didn't smell of anything but her perfume-stained self. Not a drop of alcohol or battle was on her. Sometimes her scent would be tinted with sex; men and women, foreigners. It was fascinating and irritating. He wasn't sure if she was truly lonely, or simply bored.

Regardless, as far as he knew, she of all people wouldn't be _limping_.

Ada jumped when she saw him, a ghost of her dreams standing in her bedroom. She straightened immediately as her persona demanded. It was hard to look at her and ignore the smell of injury, a poignant metallic scent. What had she been doing?

"You look awful."

She shot him a look, sarcasm in spades. "It's the newest trend."

He stayed stoic at that, but she was late for the party, and late for the show.

"You're slipping up, Ada." He said. "Am I going to regret bringing you here?"

She rubbed her hip, nursing it. He could hear the damned nylon stockings underneath the fabric scrunch and made a fist to stop the itching in his fingers.

"Only if we go to the casino." She chirped. "I just lost us three grand. Hope you don't mind."

She said it with the most deadpan tone that he questioned for a second if she was kidding. Ada crossed her arms.

"I'm kidding… I'm not losing my touch. You're making something out of nothing."

Her sarcastic bite seemed to put a kick back in her, and she floated about, champagne on her radar first and foremost. Elegant fingers touched the bottle, traced the expensive nametag.

"What are we celebrating?" she asked, tapping the glass with a nail. It sounded like she struck a chime, interesting- not unpleasant.

"We have an opportunity to break off and build our own sect."

He heard her breath hitch as he sat down, shades properly on his face. She was oddly quiet, ticking and thinking. The blues crooned behind her from buzzing speakers as she sat down, almost fell into her seat. It was a strange reaction for such a floaty creature.

She bowed her head and rubbed her neck, wires strained and spent underneath. "You want me with you?"

She really didn't have to ask. He knew and she knew the answer to that question would forever be 'yes', whether she wanted it to be or not. Days and missions gone by were enough. She was his traitorous Bonnie, and that was something. Not a romance kickstarted in Paris, or a partnership through compassion.

A friendship built on deceit and slaughter. Killing together, lying together, _fucking_ together…

She laughed in the pause, a hollow and tired sound. She was rubbing the shadow off her eyes and scraping her butterfly scales right off. "Then pour a glass."

"Is this too much for you, Ada?" he asked, popping the cork and pushing her glass towards her. She was attractive in her huff, lips tight and eyes cast hopelessly down. It was interesting to see her so cranky. Ada shook her head and let out a "tch" as he poured the chalky drink- one for him, one for her.

"Cheers", monotone.

"_Ada_-"

She tossed back the glass at her persona with hundreds of dollars' worth of champagne like it was nothing. In that moment, the squishing of her barbed lips against the glass (snares), he heard the gap in her ticking. It was like a heart murmur- sudden and obscene in - he felt himself stare over sips because whatever she had gotten herself into was short-circuiting her.

A frown creased his lips "If I wanted to get drunk, I'd have aimed for a less-expensive way to do it."

"Viva Las Vegas." She said, bubbles churning in her throat.

He couldn't even fathom why she slumped in her seat and poured another glass for herself, and frankly, it was annoying as it was unsettling. "What could you _possibly_ be mourning? I'm offering you the world as your _playground_."

She kissed the rim, suckled on it loudly and tested the noise, shrugged in an annoyingly dismissive way.

"You want to go to the casino?" she muttered, sloshing the next glass down like there was nothing to lose. "We could talk later about it."

He was tired of her changing the subject, annoyed with how callous she was to this. It was too flippant for his tastes, even for her.

He watched her pour herself another glass. "To look after you? No."

She laughed and stood, sauntered away with the champagne flute. "Fine. Stay."

As she opened the door and walked right out of the room, he muttered "women".

_**__**-Mission3-**__**_

_ An interim, 2002_

_ She wasn't sure what she liked more about physical conditioning, the feeling of her foot into a punching bag or the satisfying soreness that always followed. It was a rare commodity that she was able to train in an actual facility, but lately that the man upstairs, and he literally was just up the stairs, was feeling generous. _

_ She caught her breath and steadied the bag, positioned her feet again. _

_ Swing leg back… Position the body, concentrate._

_ She set her jaw and jumped, connected again at the same spot, landed. It was a powerful kick, a little high and exponentially more dangerous with her heels on. Capoeira took her strongest feature and amplified it._

_ "Keep your guard up." She admonished herself for freezing in position. It wasn't about technique and perfection in each and every move. 'This wasn't the Olympics, Agent Wong, you're fighting not posing.' She couldn't afford to stiffen at the last second. She needed to be as versatile as liquid. Chances were if the enemy wasn't unconscious by now, it'd still be swinging._

_ Or biting and foaming._

_ Ada sighed and smoothed her bangs unceremoniously out of her face and rolled the tension out of her shoulders. The long regiment was starting to hurt._

_ She was fighting a static object, and that was at the root of the issue. No matter how much she could convince herself that this punching bag represented a real, viable hostile, after years of fighting the most inanimate objects, she was conditioned to see it as a punching bag, first and foremost._

_ "Well while we are being introspective…" she chirped, straightening the straps of her top and tightening the foam braces on her ankles. She smirked and balanced on the balls of her heels, got into position again._

_ Technique before adapting it. Breathe in, breathe out. She jumped and slammed her foot into the bag again and landed, shuffling foot position._

_ She danced around her enemy and kept herself moving, struck again, snapped back and rolled to the side. The roundhouse connected, sent the patched bag rattling. Ada pressed her palms to the ground and stared at the space between them. _

_The fatigue was getting to her._

"_Introspection?"_

_She sighed as the shadow of a man cast over her. "More like depressed that none of my targets are responsive enough."_

_She stood and turned to face him, the sweat clinging to her skin and her body abused but fresh. "The verdict?"_

_ Wesker looked about as pleasant as ever. "We can leave now."_

_ "Is that all?" she rolled her shoulders, groaned at the hollow crack of her spine. "And Vladimir's milieu?"_

_ He tapped his foot as she gathered her things, an unusual gesture._

"_Something came up." She said, and his silence was enough of an affirmation, setting her jaw in its place, and her tongue to the inside of her cheek. "Fantastic."_

_He removed his glasses and folded them delicately, picked at his coat pocket. "Incompetence on their parts."_

"_So. We're demoted until they find something." She grumbled, pushed the athletic bag with her foot aimlessly._

_ It meant quite a bit of interim, a "sleeping period" for her to pretend to be a member of the average society of 'pick a place on the map'. "You realize every time they do this I end up getting shot at regardless?"_

_ "I do, Miss Wong." He said. "Are you done?"_

_ "Why? You want to let out some frustrations handsome?" she purred, cocked her hip, the ghost of a contrappasto._

_ He grumbled. "I'm not in the mood for you."_

_ She laughed at his agitation and kicked her things to the side, rolled her shoulders. "I'm in the mood to kick something."_

_ He was quite amused, from the quirk of his mouth- that micro-expression. "You really think you can hit me, Ada?"_

_ She sauntered over to him, weight of one foot to the other, slid her fingers up the collar of his long coat. It was a sensual sort of touch, something she noticed he tuned into more than other things. She pulled at it and he shrugged, letting her take the long trench off and carry it away. It was either he was that confident in his immortality, or he was getting far too familiar with her fiddler fingers._

_ "Your confidence is astoundingly stupid."_

_ Ada tched, brushed hair behind her ear and stretched her palms back, body following her hands into the flip. _

_ "I'm not playing to win." She crooned, posture set, palms out. _

_ The sparring felt like their conversations, their histories, missions, allegiances and twisted promises. Dodge, strike back, counter, feint. He was fast, his image blurred and then he was here, there, everywhere. He grabbed her arm, twisted and flipped her backwards. _

_ On her knees, but she laughed at him, and laughed harder when he frowned. Her reverse roundhouse connected to the bridge of his nose._

_ Wesker growled and set after her as she somersaulted back._

_The woman fought like her feet would leave the ground after each solid hit. Even after he pinned her to the wall, bashed her elbow in, broke her defenses multiple times with solid jabs, he couldn't seem to 'hit' her._

_Ada crumpled against the wall, knees drawn and a grimace on her lip, but a chuckle in her throat. "Uncle, Uncle." She sighed, raising a hand to still him, but he crouched and loomed over her, a big scary monster with two venomous eyes._

"_We need a safeword." She muttered, looked at her arm disdainfully. As always, they finished with her loss, his win. And later, his tongue on her wounds. _

_**__**-Mission3-**__**_

_Las Vegas, Nevada, 2003_

_He expected she'd be drunk. He didn't expect her to attack him._

She kicked him and she kissed him. He couldn't tell what hit first, her heel against his jaw or her lips at his throat, but they bit him with the force of a bullet. His head hit the bathroom door and smacked it wide open. The tile floor on his spine hardly tickled.

He couldn't stop her, not when her body felt like white hot metal; _his fingers fused to her skin_.

_ And he didn't particularly want to stop her._

Long arms, limbs like a spider felt like polished silver.

She dug her nails into his scalp when she landed, a god-awful pile of woman and ferocity lying on his body, holding her breath. The kiss was champagne and lipstick, _villainy_ made into a flavor so exotic he needed to drink it in.

She sounded horrifyingly honest when she sighed, "_I find you fascinating_."

It was the way her voice rasped, echoing inside her, clawing from some black, truthful abyss when he ripped the straps of that infernal red dress clean off. It was the way it fell from her, and how she absolutely clawed out of it, ripping the skin off his neck in the flurry to get his shirt off too.

_It was the way she seemed to crawl right into his being to flatter him._

There was a tight ring of stained bandages around the thick of her thigh.

A slight push with his fingers against it and he swore she whimpered into her kisses. The reaction was as satisfying as it was alarming.

Progressively they were sliding across the room, against the wall, bits and pieces of them, red, black, devil's colors floating on expensive marble. She swore (pardoned her "unladylike" slip), slurred at his affinity for buttons and layers, and damned him in the same huffed breath. He had to admit, it was an impressive sentence.

He smirked and kissed over her sweaty elegant neck, something that made the shivers roll through her spine; he let his hand rest on it. She felt different underneath, so intoxicated and flushed, but oh so _alive_, and the familiarity of the act was a bit unsettling.

Wesker muttered into her ear as he parted her thighs "What, _Bonnie?" _pulled that black lace thong off, savoring the seconds and the sound, a hissing noise as he slid it down her hips. She swayed, nearly fell over trying to weave her legs out of it.

Poor treacherous thing was caught in her own limbs.

He hovered for a moment, picked at the last thing on her body curiously. He smelled the injury, the sore flesh and dried blood, wondered what tango she was doing this time.

"Who were you irritating that they stabbed you?" he asked, peeling the sticky layers off, moving away to devote to the task.

"The usual. Bad boys." She sighed, sitting up, resting her lips on his jaw.

A half-truth was still a lie, and the gaping mass of dead tissue in her leg said other things. She tensed when he brushed his thumb over the sore skin, hissed when he dug his thumb into it just the slightest. He felt the shape of the wound, was left with the overwhelming taste of metal in his mouth as he breathed.

"Do you really think you can play for both sides?" he crooned against her skin, dug his nail into it. She seized up, whined, but set her jaw.

"No." she hissed, and he felt her nerves tense as blood bubbled around his finger. "No…."

He caged her with his shoulders, slid his finger under the skin. He could amputate her at any minute. One especially hard grip like this and the bone would be shattered. She made no noise, but her face was screwed up, pain.

"Do you expect me to keep you, Miss Wong? For amusement?"

The ticking that was characteristic of her, if was infuriating now. His senses burned richly with her, base urges stilled with the smell of her blood. She said nothing, he pressed harder.

Her thighs tightened around him like a hangman's noose, but it was her blood pooling onto the floor. He hated her again, in that moment of mania that he was close enough to feel the damage he could do and she _would_ do.

He jumped back when she laughed, quietly. Something no mortal woman should have done was laugh.

Her eyes followed him as he stood.

"We need a safeword." She gritted out, put her palm to her leg to haphazardly seal it up. He turned from her, didn't look behind him as he left with the resolution to cut these intimate moments out of the equation. It was too dangerous.

His fingers felt so sticky…


End file.
